hismelody | I'm on waves, out being tossed

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I'm on waves, out being tossed

Eventually, the lack of sleep was always going to catch up to him. Through three sleepless nights, or at least mostly sleepless, S knew it, exhaustion increasing, though easy enough to push past with so much else to focus on. Still, it was only ever a temporary solution at best, nothing that could have lasted much longer than it did. With that being the case, it shouldn't be such a surprise when, after that third night, on their third full day together, he hits a wall, no longer able to keep his eyes open, drifting off while sitting on the couch. He isn't expecting it all the same, though even that, he barely registers, just as he's only half-aware of J ushering him back to bed, too tired to protest or to focus on why he should.

It's different when he wakes up. S grew accustomed a long time ago to sleeping and waking up alone, though it was one of the most difficult things about all that solitude, no longer having a warm body beside him at such times. He and J shared a bed for years, even before their relationship became more than platonic, cuddling together for warmth in the one bed in their small studio when the weather began to change. Of course, he felt it then, the beginning of something more, and it wasn't all that long after that they admitted their feelings for each other, but they spent ages like that. Even when they fought, even when J would barely speak to him, he still had the anchor of J's presence at his side, the distance sometimes easier to breach that way. It was comforting, always, but like so much else, he never thought he would lose it until he did.

He had months, though, after J left, after J died. At some point, following the former, it just became routine, as sad and empty as everything else about his life, J's absence as tangible as it ever was to be with him. It shouldn't, then, have taken only three nights to change that. They've hardly been apart in that time, though, save for brief moments of one going into another room for something or other. He's spent every night holding J as he slept, so overwhelmingly grateful to be able to do so, determined to do anything in his power to keep him safe.

So, when S wakes up distinctly alone, disoriented and unaware even of how long he's been asleep, the first thing he feels is cold, sheer terror.

For moments — sometimes hours, even — at a time, he's managed not to dwell on it. It's always been there, though, never too far from his thoughts, always ready to creep back in, the memory of how J sounded that first day on his couch, what S was so fucking scared he might do, J's promise not to stay, but to try. Even that was more than S could have asked for, and yet he knows it's not a guarantee, either. And while the past couple of days have been good more often than not, there's no telling what might happen with J alone, left to his own thoughts. Believing that a couple of decent days would be enough to override all that darkness would be entirely too naïve, even for S; it isn't as if he ever stood a chance against it before, and things are far worse now than they ever were then, even if, in some ways, they're better, too. He doesn't know how long it's been, he doesn't know what might have happened, and it's too much, his chest so tight that it feels like he can't breathe. Despite still being tired and out of sorts, it takes him only moments to pull himself out of bed, trying not to move quite as frantically as he feels but unable to take his time about it.

Not so very long ago at all, he woke up to find out, not very long after, that J was already gone. Now, as he moves out of the bedroom and down the hall, he silently prays to whatever deities might exist that he won't be too late again. He only just got J back. He isn't at all ready to lose him again.

He's dimly aware of a few things — muffled noise that he can't distinguish, the fact that the bathroom door is still open and the light off, which is something of a relief in its own right, though he doesn't really feel it until he rounds the corner and sees J sitting on the couch, watching TV. Overwhelmed and breathless, trembling with worry, he presses his free hand to his chest, the other resting against the wall for support he's surprised to realize how much he needs. "You're alright," he finally manages to say, though it's more to himself than anything else, his voice so small he's not even sure it will be fully audible over the sound of whatever J is watching. He doesn't care, just taking in the sight of him, mercifully alive and alright, relief mingling with the panic he can't yet shake off.

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These past few days, S has considered the same thing more than once, both that he'll have to find work before too long and that J probably won't be able to, at least not for a while. Thinking about it now, though, on the heels of all that panic and several nights running without sleep, is different. For a moment, instinctively, he feels his chest tighten just a little; this time, though, he tries to breathe through it, focusing on the familiar scent of the food in front of them and J's slight smile to keep from falling back into it. He can't do that now. If anything, he doesn't want to deter J from being able to say such things to him, trying instead to think about how much he appreciates that J has. In a way, it helps, too, to have J openly admit that he wouldn't be able to work yet. S suspected as much, but he wouldn't have wanted to be the one to point that out, even just to tell J not to worry about it, certain that it probably wouldn't go over very well. This is better, even if he does have to fight off a small surge of fear at the thought of J being alone all day most days.

"I know," he murmurs, an agreement meant for all of it, summoning up a almost mirroring smile of his own in the name of being reassuring. "I've been thinking about that. About looking for work soon." It isn't like he had any plan for how or when he would stop staying awake just to be there if J needed him, no particular sign that he was waiting for, no precise amount of time that would ease his concerns. He doesn't want to say that, though, and have to admit that he hasn't just not been sleeping much, but rather not sleeping at all. "And about... I'm still getting used to the money here. The figures don't entirely make sense to me yet. But I think, if I get a job, and with the money we'll both get every month and the two of us sharing a place, we should be alright without you having to work yet. I don't... want you to feel any pressure to. I promise, I don't mind being the only one of us working for now."

It should, he thinks, speak for itself, but it should also be said. Granted, S is pretty sure that he's dodging the actual subject at hand at least in part, but it isn't wholly deliberate; mostly, he's just been sidetracked. It just helps that it means he doesn't have to address the part where he'll be leaving J here alone just yet.

J thinks he can see it, the flicker of panic, and for a moment, he feels horrible for having said anything. S recovers, more or less, though, and J lets out a tiny, relieved sigh. It's bad timing, he tells himself again. Still, they need to talk about it eventually, and there's no point sitting on it. Besides, as S speaks, he finds himself reassured by it all, his expression softening into adoration.

"How did I find such a boyfriend?" he asks, fond, a little teasing. Even though he knew S would think as much, it helps to hear. Really, he's felt a little stupid about the fact of not working these last couple days. Even as he's told himself that he really just can't handle it yet, even as he's known it's too early to force himself to work after having died, it still makes him feel terribly small and foolish to think he won't be able to yet, and he's had to fight against that old fear of being simply someone for S to take care of. It isn't like that, he knows it isn't, that he's the one thinking these things and not S, but he needs reassurance all the same.

"I will again eventually," he says. "I want to. I always feel so off if I don't have something to do. But until then... well, I'll have a lot to do here, learning how to take care of the house and cook and cleaning up the mess I make of that." As long as he can do that and he can contribute what he gets every month from this strange city, he can handle letting S be the one to hold down a job for a while.

S doesn't realize until he finds himself relieved by J's response that he'd worried how he'd react. Even that, he considers, probably isn't altogether a bad thing. It means he's taking to heart, or at least trying to, everything J has said to him over the past couple of days — that he doesn't like needing help, which has been plainly apparent from the moment they met anyway, and that he doesn't want to be made to feel like he can't do things or for S to be more of a caretaker than a boyfriend. With this, though, to S, it's been all that makes sense. Given everything, it's hard to imagine J being ready to find a job yet, and now that they've decided to live together, there isn't really any need for him to. Money will likely be tight, but they're used to that, and if absolutely nothing else, the stipend they both get from the city, as strange as that is, should make sure that they can keep the rent paid and food in the kitchen. They've always gotten by before. They will again now, and S doesn't mind at all being their only other source of income for the time being.

"Ah, by getting picked on in the yard at school," he replies, gently teasing right back, "that's how. And standing up to those bullies." It was twofold, he thinks — how he wanted to protect J and was in awe of him at the same time. All these years later, both are still true. Even now, they're talking about a way for him to take care of J, one that S is just glad they aren't going to have to fight over, knowing how often J has balked at that and how much he likes to have something to do, to be useful.

With that in mind, his expression a little more serious, he nods, not wanting to seem like he's taking this too lightly, knowing, too, how much J has hated it when he's come across that way. "I'll help you learn how to cook some dishes," he adds. "And remember the settings for the washer and dryer, and that sort of thing." Those tasks mostly fell to him before, but he wasn't the only one of them working then. As much as he still doesn't mind taking care of any of it now, he knows better than to leave J without anything to take care of.

J snorts, rolling his eyes at that assessment, though it's entirely true. He's not sure how admirable it was of him to keep fighting back when he was outmatched, but he's never been much good at knowing his limits or when to back down. Then again, knowing that's what caught S's attention, he'd never want to change it. Time did enough to wear him down anyway, without his trying.

Even so, he feels more like himself lately, something he feels is due in no small part to S — to moments like this, where S encourages him. He's thankful for the warmth and the fondness, but thankful, too, for this, how seriously S has taken what he's said. He nods, emphatic, and smiles a little. "I'd like that," he says. "I'll write it all down if I have to. Call you in the middle of work to ask how I'm supposed to wash sheets again. And anyway, once I've gotten better at a few foods, I'll be better able to follow recipes, right?" He can get a cookbook from a library or something, if they have cookbooks here for the kinds of food he'd like to make. Granted, if he actually finds he's any good at it, surely he'll want to try new things eventually, but for now, he's trying not to dream beyond samgyetang, something that tastes like home.

"I'll feel a lot better like that," he adds. He'd want to do his best to help take care of their home anyway, but he often lets things slip his mind. Like this, he has all the more reason to remember and to work hard for it. "I'll be contributing too."

Instinctively, S wants to tell him that he would be contributing regardless. From his standpoint, it would be true, too. Just having him here makes all the difference in the world, makes this place a home rather than just somewhere he's living, and S knows he can only imagine how hard it must be to cope with everything J has on his shoulders now. Besides, he'll be contributing to their rent and bills, too. This isn't something he's going to fight J on, though. As much as he wouldn't mind doing the cooking and laundry and other assorted chores for them — anything, really, to have J here — he's hardly going to complain about having help with them, especially if it makes J feel better.

"I'm sure you'll be able to," he agrees, with as much faith in J as he's ever had. "Once you've gotten some more practice, we should try to find one somewhere." It would help him, too, really, to have a cookbook to reference for things he never picked up at home, since it isn't as if there's anyone he could call to ask for advice now. He learned a lot when he was young, committing things to memory when he helped in the kitchen, but it isn't as if he could have expected to lose his parents when he did. Having something to learn from or double check would at least give them some more options.

He still doesn't particularly want to dwell on his parents and the loss of them right now, though, and it's at least easy enough to keep his focus elsewhere, between the food and the subject at hand. This, too, he's considered on and off since he got here, really; even before J showed up, he knew he would have to find work before too long. It's just a bit more pressing now, even if it also makes him more inclined to give it a bit more time. "I don't even know what kind of job I'd be good for," he says, a small admission. He's worked odd jobs on and off since the two of them first got their own place, but he also has physical limitations now that he didn't then, and anyway, this wouldn't just be something part-time on weekends and between classes. School, he feels fairly sure, is out of the question for him. Though still technically on leave before he got here, S doesn't think he would have wound up going back, and not just because there's a very good chance he wouldn't have had a scholarship anymore. "But I'll make sure it's something where you can call me anytime. And if you ever... need me here, just say the word and I'll come up with a reason to call out or leave early."

J brightens at that, softens, too, pleased. S has always been so incredibly supportive — even, really, when J has made it difficult, almost impossible — so it's not like this is surprising. In light of all his own fears, though, it's still deeply reassuring. Whatever he ends up doing, whatever he's capable of, S will help let him do it as best he can.

"Tell them your girlfriend is very sick," he says dryly, then shakes his head. "Ah, you could do anything you like." S is clever like that. He could do anything he wished to, J is certain of it, and he's good at making people like him in a way J has never been able to manage. It's just a matter of figuring out what S would like to do. They've had an assortment of odd jobs between them — whatever, really, J could manage to get, he took, as long as it didn't cut into his schoolwork. He wasn't going to let anything jeopardize his chance at a scholarship, but beyond that, he had no ability to be picky about what he pursued. Not too many people were keen to hire someone like him. With the money from this city to help them, it seems like maybe they can afford to hold out for something S might actually enjoy, at least.

"What would you want to do?" he asks. They've talked about all kinds of things over the years, though J hasn't really wavered. It's always been music in some form or another, though there was a period where he hadn't yet written anything worth calling music and he'd thought he'd simply play. Now he has no idea what to do with himself. That's all he ever wanted, and now the future is a vast, blank sheet of paper. It's better, easier, to focus for now on what S would like. "If you didn't have to worry about the money." They always have had to, but at least it can help them pinpoint a direction.

S lets out a soft, startled laugh at J's suggestion for a excuse to leave. It's really not a terrible one, all things considered, but he thinks it might be too much of a lie to actually say. If nothing else, he wouldn't want anyone to start asking questions about some imaginary girlfriend, in case it became too apparent that no such person existed. He would have no pictures, any details would have to be made up; he couldn't just describe J and pretend he was talking about a girlfriend rather than his boyfriend, given how easily that truth could come out. When he needs to, though, he'll figure something out. It shouldn't be too hard to come up with an excuse to get away.

"If I didn't have to worry about the money, I would stay here with you," he points out without any hesitation, fond and teasing, his nose scrunching a little as he smiles playfully over at J. It's only a moment, though, before his expression softens again, accompanied by a helpless shrug, casual but still clearly uncertain. "I don't know." He used to. For a long time, he was absolutely sure that he knew. Once it occurred to him to pursue music, it was like pieces falling into place; he always loved it, but studying it, setting that as a goal, just felt right, much like being with J did.

Now, though, it's different, the past year and especially the last few months taking a toll. He should just say it, probably, that he doesn't write anymore, that he barely plays. While he can't predict how J would respond, though, he can guess that it wouldn't be particularly good, and he doesn't think he could bear to face that. Just getting into that subject at all seems like a potential minefield, and they've cried so much already tonight. He doesn't want to make them fall apart again now, when they've finally gone back to feeling somewhat good.

Besides, even if all of that weren't so, he's still not sure he would want it anymore. With as jealous as J was of him for so long, he should have given it up sooner, probably. It wasn't worth the damage it did, and it wouldn't be now, either.

"Nothing with heavy lifting," he adds, voice light, though he means it. "I doubt they'd keep me a week."

J reaches across the table to lay his hand atop S's, just for a few moments. "That's true," he says wryly. "You were already almost as weak as me." And now, he knows, S must be equally as out of shape as him, maybe more so, for having been so gravely injured. It's not something he wants to dwell on, and it isn't something they've been much able to talk about, but he knows it's probable, at least. Besides, though there's no reason to be ashamed of manual labor, there's also no reason someone with S's brilliance should have to do it if he doesn't want to. There are plenty of jobs he's better suited for, though most of them are probably incredibly dull.

"But aside from staying with me," he continues. He takes a moment to eat a bit more, thinking it over. There are things he knows S used to want, but he has no idea what that looks like now. Besides, even if they had a piano, even if J could bring himself to stay away from one, composing and playing won't bring in the money they need yet. Dreams are necessary, but so is a measure of practicality. "Mm, you could give lessons?"

He's not sure, suddenly, that he's being at all helpful. "Sorry," he adds. "You've had a stressful night and I'm talking about work. We don't need to figure it out yet." As if to prove his point, he shoves a big piece (maybe a couple pieces) of tteokbokki into his mouth, letting his cheeks go comically round as a distraction, eyes widening to match.

There's something oddly almost comforting about the way J phrases that, how he says already as if implying that that might have changed since they were together. It has, of course, but S wouldn't have wanted to say so. As little as he's talked about the months since J died and his grief, oblique as they've kept any references to what J did to him, he's said even less about the physical effects of it — nothing at all, really, aside from trying to tell J that he was fine when J first reacted to the scars on his chest. And he meant it, too. He is fine now, as recovered as he can be, from a physical standpoint; he can lift things again, and spend more than a few minutes at a time on his feet, clearly. It was a long, slow, painful process, though, and some of the effects of it linger, while others still are permanent. He's thinner now than he used to be, and weaker, too; he was never athletic, but he has even less stamina now than before. His heart will never be quite the same, in the most literal sense. Those aren't things that J needs to hear outright, though, so it helps to have that truth implicitly acknowledged without a conversation about it.

Far less comforting is J's suggestion. It isn't a bad idea, actually, or it wouldn't be if it didn't cut too close to other subjects that S is deliberately trying to avoid, if it didn't make him so uneasy just to think about telling J that he doesn't really play much anymore. He hasn't intended to stop entirely, but it's mostly for J's sake — for his memory — that he meant to get back to it, continuing because he was the only one of them who could, because J would never get to. Now, it's different. That was such a source of friction for them before, to say the absolute fucking least, and it wouldn't be worth the damage it would do. Teaching, at least, might not be as bad as composing, or even as playing somewhere, but it still might be too much. The idea of rededicating himself to piano in any way is strangely unsettling, not at all right in the way it used to be. Maybe it's only because they haven't really talked about that either, but when there's every chance that doing so would only make it worse, he doesn't particularly want to change that.

"I don't know," he says, shrugging again, uncertain, though he relaxes a bit, smiling at the way J's cheeks puff out, a moment later. "Ah, you're cute. Don't be sorry, it's alright. I'm glad you brought it up. It's been on my mind, too."

J brightens, relieved it worked. He's usually the one trying to make things more serious — often more so than they need to be — but there's no reason they need to dwell on this now. Besides, S doesn't look entirely comfortable with the subject. It's a lot to think about now, and it hasn't been very long since he was shaking with panic and tears, and it's J's turn to take care of him, not to make it worse.

"I know," he says, because of course it has been. They've spent too long having to fend for themselves not to think about these things. As emotional as the last few days have been, they've talked a lot about what it means to make this their home and to have a life together, and there's no way to discuss that and not think about the money they'll need just to stay afloat. Having the cash they were given when they arrived helps a lot, but they still have to plan ahead. He remembers, before he continues, that he should chew and swallow, if only to avoid choking.

"But I didn't have to bring it up now," he says. "If you wanna talk about it, that's fine, but we can figure it out later. This food is too good to waste talking about jobs. Better to focus on how cute I am." He can barely say it, almost laughing as he does. He really isn't, but if he can make S laugh, that's good enough for him.

Even before J got here, it was something that S had on his mind, nothing especially pressing yet, but present all the same. With the money that was waiting for him when he arrived, something for which he's grateful, despite not understanding it, he could give himself a little time to get settled, then to figure out what to do and look for work, without winding up in particularly dire straits, but it's not like he intended or wanted to stay unemployed for very long. Not having anything to do wasn't doing him any favors. Now, with J here, he's both in less of a hurry, wanting a little more time to spend together and to make sure that J is as steady as he can be, and aware that his finding a job will be more crucial, since he's the only one of them who'll be working, at least for the time being. He really doesn't mind that, either. It's something he would have been doing anyway, and he wouldn't want to pressure J to take on more than he could handle yet. With the two of them splitting expenses, and him bringing home paychecks, they should, he thinks, be alright — certainly more so than they would have been if J had moved into that other apartment across the city, leaving them with twice as much to pay in bills.

All of that is easier to consider than the simple question of what work he can do. They probably should talk about it, if not tonight, then sooner rather than later, but he's been aimless for a long time now, and that, too, is hard to own up to. He had only one thing driving him the past few months, and it isn't as if that would do him any good now. Neither would going back to anything involving piano if it would only make J resentful of him again.

He smiles instead, swallowing a bite of food before he says, "The cutest." As far as he's concerned, it's absolutely true. J is especially cute like this, in good spirits and teasing, making it easy to do the same in turn. "Aren't you supposed to be the one telling me to be more serious?" Nudging J's foot with his own under the table, he wrinkles his nose again, not wanting J to take his comment the wrong way. "We can talk about it now or later. It's fine."

J laughs. Rather than nudging S back, he slides his foot along S's, brushing his ankle, playful but still flirty. He's not looking to start anything, but sometimes it's fun to let go and not be the serious one for a minute. "If you want to," he says. "I don't mind." He doesn't want to add to S's stress either way. "Just because we need to take it seriously doesn't mean we have to do so at dinner."

Or, for that matter, just on the heels of a panic attack for S and a big emotional whatever it was that J went through just there himself. He's not exactly at his best either — even for the limited value of whatever his best has been the last couple years — but he's learned to function in that state to some extent, and he's still doing better than he often has for a while now. He's more concerned about S.

"I think you could do anything anyway," he says. "Aside from lifting heavy objects. Or professional sports."

Letting out a laugh of his own, just a soft exhale, really, S shakes his head, expression deeply fond. He's as sure that that isn't true as he is that J believes it, which is both sweet and a little sad. They've both, he thinks, always believed in each other more than themselves, even if he's never had the same level of insecurity that J has. Where he only ever felt awe, though, he knows that for J, it turned to resentment, just one of many, many things that drove them apart. In this context, it's nice to hear, really, nice for someone to have that kind of faith in him when he hasn't had anyone in his life for so long; he just has to drown out that little flicker of worry that it won't turn in the other direction again.

"Ah, well, there go my dreams of a career in baseball," he deadpans as he reaches over for a chicken wing. He would never have considered either of those, of course, and he's sure that J knows it. However much they've both changed, some things very much have not. His foot curling alongside J's in turn, he adds, "I don't know, I'll have to keep thinking about it, I guess. Or maybe just look and see what places might be hiring."

The idea of S voluntarily playing any kind of sport, never mind professionally, is enough to make J laugh again, even though he was the one to start the joke. It's not like S is wholly incompetent at these things — J's reasonably certain he'd do alright if he had to, in a casual setting — but he's also never been interested in that, unless he took up some surprising new hobbies in J's absence.

"I guess that would be the rational thing to do," he says, nodding. It's the technique he's always fallen back on, after all. Finding a job has, thus far, never been about what he wanted to do. It's only ever been a matter of finding somewhere that was hiring, that would allow him to work around his studies during the school year, and that would actually take him on. There were places where they really didn't care about J's background, and that was always a relief, but there were plenty enough, too, where he'd find they didn't want someone like him around. Coming across a place that had all three was hard enough without his being choosy about the kind of work it would entail. All that mattered was that it paid.

But they had bills to pay and no reliable income back then, aside from what S got towards the rent, and so that was how it had to be. They have a little more room to pick and choose here. "But if you think of something you want to do," he says, "you could at least start looking in that direction."

He knows what S used to want to do. He ought to just mention it outright, but he is, he knows, a bit of a coward. Besides, with the state they've both been in tonight, he really doesn't feel like it's smart for him to bring up music right now. "As long as it doesn't involve objects flying at your face, I'll support it."

S smiles a little wider, quietly pleased, at the laugh J lets out. He's always loved making J laugh, and that feels especially true now — when for so long, he tried and failed to do just that, when everything was so heavy just a little while ago. Part of him still wonders if he should just say it, tell J that he doesn't even know if he would want to look for anything involving music or not, admit that he hasn't written at all in months. It isn't as if he can keep it a secret forever, the subject bound to come up eventually. For that matter, it isn't really as if it's a secret at all. It is, instead, just a simple fact of his life now. Mostly, though, he sees the way J looks now, hears the lightness in his voice, and he can't bring himself to change that, not now. He doesn't see any way for that conversation to go particularly well, if only for the subjects it comes too close to skirting the edge of. This doesn't seem like the time. Besides, it isn't as if there are many high-paying jobs for pianists anyway. If he's going to find work to support the two of them, it should be something where he'll actually make enough money to be able to do so.

"Nothing flying at my face, got it," he says instead, warm and still amused as he watches J. "I don't think it should be too hard to find a job fitting that description." He can't imagine himself considering anything otherwise, when all joking aside, he really never has been remotely athletic, and he can't think of many other jobs that would come with that risk. Surely, if absolutely nothing else, there must be some stores hiring or something. Considering that, he has a little flicker of worry that most of them won't want to take a chance on someone whose first language isn't English, but he's done well enough since he got here, apparently having retained more from his high school classes than he would have expected.

Just as J did a moment ago, S reaches over to rest his hand against J's arm for a moment, expression softening the slightest bit. "I'll figure something out," he promises, as close as he thinks he should get to acknowledging how distant he's become from music. "And we'll be okay until I do."

J smiles, soft and content, turning his arm under S's touch so he can touch S's arm, too. There's no real concern or stress in S's voice, no worry that J is worried, just quiet reassurance, and it feels nice. Though it's been a stressful evening, he feels at ease now. He nods his agreement. "We have enough to get by for now," he says. He hasn't taken a close look at their finances, but he knows that what he got when he arrived was surprisingly substantial, and that S got the same. Between the two of them, that should keep them fed and housed for the coming month, anyway, as long as they don't order out like this again — or, anyway, not very often. That gives them a while to figured out their next step, so there's no need to add to S's stress tonight.

"And I know you will," he says. "I'll help however I can, but... you've got this, I know." S is tough and determined, every bit as stubborn as J is. When he's ready to look, J has faith he'll figure it out. "Until then..." He shrugs, smiling. "It's nice to have you all to myself." They spent so long apart. It's good to have this time just to enjoy each other's company again. They need it, he thinks. There's a lot to talk about, a lot to determine and discuss, a lot of lost time to make up for. If they can have a couple weeks or even more where they simply get to be together, then he's going to make the most of it.

Pleased and a little sheepish, S nods, ducking his head for a moment, though he doesn't look away for long and doesn't pull away yet. With plenty of food still on the table to eat, he can't really justify staying like this for too long, but he wants another moment longer to savor this slight contact. It has been, as J has pointed out, a stressful night, and though he's calmer now by far, happy, really, to be sitting here with his boyfriend, having splurged on takeout, he can't pretend he isn't shaken by what happened earlier. Besides, he knows there are heavier subjects waiting right on the edge of their current conversation, ones they should probably address but don't need to now. It's not like he's going to go out job-hunting right this second anyway. He might as well enjoy this for a while longer instead, and the slight warmth that curls through him at J expressing such faith in him again, believing in him without, this time, any accompanying resentment.

"Honestly, I wouldn't want to start working quite yet anyway," he admits, one shoulder lifting. "Soon, of course, but I'd rather have a little while longer just to be here with you first." It isn't even out of fear for what might happen with J left alone for that long, not entirely, not even mostly. They've just been apart from each other for so long. They deserve, he thinks, a chance just to be with each other for a while, to reconnect, to make up for a little of all that lost time. "Not... not because of... earlier. It's just nice. To have some time together."

J nods emphatically, sliding his arm back so he can take hold of S's hand instead, squeezing gently. "I missed that," he says in agreement. They should get to have this, time to readjust and reacquaint themselves with being in a relationship, a chance to enjoy all they missed.

But even if S says it's not just that he's worried about J's safety, it's still worth addressing, he thinks. "It'll be good because of earlier, too," he adds. "I've only been here a few days. Time might help both of us."

He could, he knows, point out the stark truth, which is that he very much knows that, if he were going to hurt himself seriously or try to kill himself, he wouldn't want S to find him. Somehow, though, he doubts that would help as much as he would mean it to. It's not like the things he's got in his head and his past will simply go away if he ignores them. The pain and fear are still there, and times will come when living feels almost impossible. But he's hurt S enough. Killing himself would be horrible enough to leave S with; he can't, won't, make S deal with the mess of finding him if it comes to that. As important as honesty is here, though, he doesn't think S needs to hear that — not right now, maybe not ever.

"I feel safer here," he says instead. "Even when you do start working... I think I'll feel better, knowing you'll be home again later."

Perhaps counterintuitively, S finds that it's a little comforting to have J acknowledge that. He overreacted earlier, he knows he did, but he would worry regardless. That J isn't trying to say there's nothing for him to worry about — that he's actually talking to him again — makes a big difference on its own, not erasing those fears entirely, but quieting them somewhat. With as upset as he was earlier, he doesn't want to get into it in detail again now; he wouldn't want to pretend it didn't happen either, though, or that there wasn't any reason for it. He still thinks it was stupid, really, but only the extent of it, the fact that it was prompted by virtually nothing, not that concern itself. If they both know that, though, he thinks, however naively, that they'll be better able to make sure that fear never becomes reality.

"I think I'll feel better, too," he admits, soft. "Knowing that you're here and not somewhere alone on the other side of the city." He wouldn't have said it before J agreed to move in the other day, but it feels right to be honest in turn now, not least because he's just tired enough and just out of it enough not to remember exactly what he said when J decided to live here. "I would have anyway. Now there's just that, too."

The last thing he wants is to seem like he invited J to stay here just to keep an eye on him. He's pretty sure he hasn't so far, but even so, it seems worth saying in context like this. "You're right, though," he adds, giving J's hand a gentle squeeze in turn. "About time helping. And it'll be good. I missed just... being with you."

J nods, offering S a warm, fond smile. The very idea of moving elsewhere, being so far from S when he knows he shouldn't be alone, was utterly unsettling. He doubts saying so will help right now, though. Besides, it's not like he's staying just for his safety. They've been apart so long, he would have been miserable going back to that kind of distance, and so unnecessarily. They're both happier like this.

"Me too," he says. "It's nice to be home." It's more than nice, but they both know that, too. Just being here with S has made such a profound difference for him in such a short time. J knows it's unlikely that's all it's going to take for him to be steadier, but it's still helping. He'll hold onto whatever good he can get. "And one of us working won't... I'll still be here. I can message you through the day and, when you get home, I'll be here waiting for you. But I'm glad we have time before that's needed. I feel a little better every day, I think, being with you."

He won't ever be who he was before, and that's for the best, probably. As much as he misses parts of who he was, he went down the worst possible path from there, and now he has a chance to rebuild what his future should look like. He's not sure he'll ever be entirely what he would call stable either, still worryingly certain of his own madness. But every day he gets of a more normal, happier life makes him feel more present in his own body, less like a loaded gun ready to go off without warning. Maybe by the time S finds and starts a job, he won't be such a worry to either of them.

Hearing J say that, it's nice to be home, S feels warm all over. It's a nice change, really, from earlier. From the last few months, up until a couple of days ago. He could say the same, though he wouldn't know how to explain that. He's not the one who went anywhere, until he showed up here. Even staying in the studio they'd shared, though, the one that became a home when he felt like he would never have one again, he lost that when J left. It was a place he lived, but it wasn't home anymore. This apartment, bigger than he'd gotten used to and so empty, sure as hell wasn't home. All of that has changed now. It wouldn't matter where he was, he thinks, a different city or country or world or time. His home is wherever J is. If J had decided to live in that other apartment, S still would have done his best to make this a home for them, somewhere J would feel welcome, not like a guest, but it still would have felt pointless to him to be apart. He still would have wanted J here.

He would have anyway, but even just the past day or two has made such a difference. On the surface, very little has changed. They haven't gone shopping yet, except to buy groceries and other essentials. It's no more decorated or lived in than it already was. With J's presence, though, it no longer feels only like a place where he's staying, but somewhere he actually lives, somewhere he wants to.

"I'm glad," he murmurs, a bit self-conscious but unmistakably pleased. Ducking his head, he lifts their joined hands so he can press a kiss to J's, letting go a moment later only because he doesn't want to let the food get cold. They could heat it up easily enough if they needed to, but he wasn't lying about being hungrier than he expected. And saying he's glad is such an understatement, but he thinks J will know that much. It doesn't seem worth dragging the mood down by saying anything more descriptive now. "And yes. You can message me, and if you need me, then I'll be here, and otherwise... I'll know I'm coming home to you."

J ducks his head in turn, smiling, a little sheepishly at how readily his heart flutters from such a simple gesture. These things used to be commonplace for them. He's not sure he ever got to a point where it didn't affect him, though, and now it's more affecting still, the simple brush of S's lips against his hand making him happy. With S having let go of his hand, he remembers the food in front of him, and picks up some more tteokbokki, nodding as S speaks.

It sounds so good. The idea of S coming home to him, the idea that he can help make this somewhere comforting and happy for S to return to after a day doing whatever he winds up doing, is an appealing one. Though he's not looking forward, really, to a time when S is away for much of the day, he does like the idea of that. When they were younger, he took solace in being able to help S feel like he had somewhere he belonged, the only thing he really knew how to do in the face of all that grief, the pain he couldn't solve. He can do it again, he knows he can. He'll get better at doing laundry, he learn how to cook more than the most basic of dishes, and even if he fails at both on any given day, he'll still be here, waiting to pull S into his arms.

"I like how that sounds," he admits, once he's swallowed a bite that's more cheese than rice cake. "It's been so long..." He didn't have a home for a long time. He left the one he had to go back to his mother's house, but he left there, too, pretty quickly, taking advantage of the professor's offer of mentorship, and nothing's really felt the way home should in years. "And I like being that for you."

It's probably ridiculous, how easily S finds himself distracted even now, telling himself to get back to eating only to wind up watching J again, utterly and obviously fond. Over and over again, he keeps being struck by how unbelievably beautiful J is, especially when he smiles. That's nothing new, of course — he knew it in an objective sense before he was aware of his own feelings for J — but being together again still is, and even when they were still in a relationship the first time, he spent far too long not seeing J smile at all. Getting to do so again now is incredible; it would be even if J hadn't wanted to give this another try.

Everything J says only adds to that, that same warm feeling not yet waning. It shouldn't have had to be so long, but they both know that, and at least they're both home now. "You are," he says quietly, tender and earnest. "You always have been." The statement could be a bittersweet one if he let it, but S doesn't want to go down that road now. This isn't the time to talk about how lost he felt in J's absence, how J may have been the one who left home, but he took S's with him when he went. Showing up here, he brought it back, turned this barely lived in apartment, with its preselected furniture and mostly empty cupboards and total lack of personal touches, into a home. "I like being that for you, too."

He still doesn't really know when or how he stopped being that, but he's just glad he can be again, if a little awed by it, and determined not to lose that once more. Instead of saying so, he lets out a quiet laugh. "Ah, I never would have thought we'd be home in some almost American city, in an apartment we moved into with nothing, but I'll take it."

J smiles, warm and unguarded and happier than he would have thought he'd be even half an hour ago. "But we're good at that," he says, "making a home with nothing." They've never had much, at least not in the times when they've lived together, and they got a place together under some of the worst possible circumstances, but they still managed to make it home. That studio was absurdly small and he remembers all too well how hot it got in the summer, how cramped it felt if they fought or even if he was simply feeling grumpy, having to fuss with everything in the place to get it to work despite their complete lack of any technical knowledge. But he remembers, too, how happy they both were, if only for a little while.

He feels that happiness again now, buoyed by knowing how lucky he is to get that chance. Just looking at S, hearing the way he laughs, melts J's heart. They never really needed anything to make a home but each other. It would have been better if he'd remembered that.

"Though we have more room now," he teases, gesturing playfully at S with his chopsticks, "so if you want things, we actually have somewhere to put them."

Hearing that, S can't help but smile in turn, pleased and still so affectionate. If he really wanted to, he could debate the semantics of that, really. They had no money when they moved in together before, and little between them, but they weren't starting entirely from scratch, given what he was able to keep from home. Really, it was more a matter of how much they had space for, which wasn't very much. Still, it helped get them started, and they unquestionably made that tiny studio a home. S thought, then, that that would be the worst time in his life. He turned out to be wrong about that in multiple ways, but first that was because it wound up being the best time in his life, too, the two of them off on their own, barely able to make ends meet every month, living practically on top of each other, but so happy.

At least, with some of what they've discussed since J got here, he doesn't have to second-guess that happiness anymore. They were happy; it wasn't just something he foolishly believed because he was happy. They may have had only each other and the upright piano he grew up with, but they had all they needed.

He doesn't know if that will be the case again now or how to ensure that it is, but he does know that this place is already home, and he means to do whatever he can to keep it that way. "We are good at that," he agrees, just barely resisting the temptation to reach for J again, taking another bite of food instead. "And we have more room now than I know what to do with. If you have any suggestions, I'll gladly take them."

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